Thoughts on the Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Mickeys All The Way Down

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Let us go, you and I, on a journey from the macro to the micro; more specifically, from the laity to the Enthusiast.

The average viewer, with no interest in or perhaps violent distaste for the Dead, would notice Garcia. “Hey, that’s Hairy Mendoza, the lead singer,” they would say, and go back to listening to Taylor Swift or Facechatting or setting churches on fire: whatever the teens are into these days.

One who knew the Dead on a casual basis would recognize Bobby, but be confused by the sockless moccasins.

Another, who styled herself a Deadhead, might know that Bobby was secretly a golfer. The true juice, she thinks, is in Mickey’s spandex-and-tube-socks combination.

We know different, don’t we? We know that Mickey achieved full Mickception with his choice of shirt. Yes, he’s wearing a shirt from the band he’s in–classic Mickey–but it’s from a tour he wasn’t on. That’s legendary Mickey. What he’s done here is the Triple Lindy of wearing your own band’s shirt.

Mister, Charlie

billy lightsHey, Billy. You all right?

“Nope. Having a flashback.”

An acid flashback? I thought that was a fairy tale. And even if it is true: shouldn’t you be able to handle it?

“Not acid. Vietnam.”

Don’t do this.

“I’m freaking out, man. It’s like tracer fire! I was stationed in the town next to Da Nang. It was called Lana Lang.”

Was it, now?

“Charlie was a-coming! Here’s a piece of trivia: ‘Charlie’ is actually a rather uncommon name in Vietnam.”

You don’t say.

“I didn’t meet a single one.”

When did you say you were there?

“During the hiatus, man.”

We’re done.

Steal Your Stuff Right Off Your Bed

billy thief

Billy?

“Yeah?”

Whatcha doing?

“Stealing stuff.”

Okay. Not a lot of room in those shorts for anything, though.

“Sure, because of my overflowing bowl of potato salad, yeah.”

I was referring to the size of the short.

“Yeah, yeah: we can’t dress. You haven’t run that joke into the ground 18 months ago yet. Let’s talk about my book.”

Okay. What about it?

“It’s called Deal. And then some other crap, cuz that’s the law with rock books. The title goes: Song Title or Famous Lyric, and then a colon, and then a little teaser of the stuff that’s gonna be in the book.”

Can you give me an example?

“Well, my book’s official title is Deal: My Three Decades of Drumming, Dreams, and Drugs with the Grateful Dead.”

Lot of tail on that kite.

“That’s how it goes in publishing business, kid. Lars Ulrich’s book is coming out next year. It’s called Hit the Lights: 30 Years of Dickishness, Doing That Thing with my Face, and Danish Accents (Slight) with Metallica.”

Is that what it’s called?

“You betcha. John Paul Jones from Zeppelin? He wrote one, too.”

And its name is?

“In Through The Out Door: 400 Pages of Stories About John Bonham Being Terrible.”

Really.

“Sure.”

You ever meet those guys?

“Zeppelin? Fuck those assholes in their assholes. Limey pansy pussies, the lot of ‘em. You want a dick punched, you do it yourself. Be a man. Everyone in that fucking organization was a thug–manager on down–so the precious little drummer could do a 45 minute drum solo and the fancy blonde singer could waltz around like a fruit with his cock hanging out of his pants.

“There’s just easier ways to do it, man. The final goal, the desired outcome, right? It’s doing whatever the fuck you want and getting away with it, right? That’s what everyone wants and if you’re in a big-time rock group, you can get it.

“But you can get it without beating the shit out of everyone in sight.”

“Buy my book!”

Portlandteau

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Don’t remember this fondly: it was dreadful, but nostalgia’s bite is subtle and we never realize the fucker’s there.

Technology, no matter what tech bros will tell you, isn’t art. It is linear, instead of cyclical. A novel written in 2000 is not better than one written in 1900 simply because of its age; in fact, it might be inherently worse. And it’s probably telling the same story: there are only, like, five stories.

But tech goes in a straight line until it stops. There were many early attempts at, say, the spoon. Once our ancestors found the right ladle-to-handle proportions, they stopped trying to improve on it. We’re still using the same design, except our flatware tends to be made of metal or plastic rather than the bones of our enemies.

Technostalgia* is a new flavor of first world boredom, this yearning for iceboxes with giant fans on the top or utilizing the postal service to issue 100,000 tickets to a rock concert in 2015.

The Technostalgist doesn’t eschew the bleeping or blinking bullshit of today: he is no Luddite, but instead an aesthete. The pixels, you see, were brighter and–more importantly–fewer back in the day. He has a lot of thoughts on pixels. He has also thought about the Uncanny Valley.

Everything was better back in the day, though the Technostalgist refuses to be specific about which day.

There’s nothing beautiful about dot matrix anything; it’s just that at the time you saw them, you were beautiful.

Put Up Your Dukes

jerry rocking

Hey, Garcia.

“Can’t talk. Rocking.”

Yeah, really.

I’ve Got A Secret

bobby garcia secret“You’re my best friend.”

“That’s great, Bob. Get the fuck back to your spot.”

“Still my bestie.”

TotD forgot to mention that the secrets of engiffination were revealed to him by Mr Completely.

Funny story about that guy: remember how I told you that he was Portland’s sticky avenger, The Tree Octopus? Turns out I should not have done that. All of his villains–The Non-Recycler, The Soccer Fan, The Damp–ambushed him at his favorite Thai place and just went ape-shit all over him.

TotD regrets the ape-shittification of The Tree Octopus.

Guide To GIFs

We–

Stop talking like you’re the Queen.

–have received a request from longtime commentator and lady who can tell you who all six flags belonged to, Rodeo Amy. She (being perceptive) noticed that TotD (being obsessive) has recently learned how to engiffinate the Dead. (I suppose you could engiffinate anything, but why?)

First thing to remember is: if TotD can do it, then so can you. Have no fear. Unless there has been a mass breakout from the Home for the Theatrically Insane. Then, you should have quite a bit of fear. You will most likely be turned into some sort of art before dawn. They should stop keeping the theatrically insane together, anyway: they tend to collaborate.

20: go to here. That’s Imgur. It’s where Reddit keeps its pictures, kinda. There are many cats that care about ethics in gaming journalism, but that’s not important right now.

Plug the Youtube url in the box and you’re off: little sliders will appear and let you grab anything from .01 seconds to fifteen seconds of giffy goodness, but anything more than four or five seconds won’t save as a .gif file, just a .gifv, which is a pain in the ass file type.

The first time I did it, it took an hour and I cried afterward. Now, I can crank them out. Sill quite a bit of crying.

Who’s up for a gif contest?

A Moment In The Mind Of Bob Weir

bobby pedals“Gonna step on this pedal right here and I wonder what’s going on behind me?”

Fists Of Fury, Beard Of Vengeance

phil karate

“So, Chi-Chi comes up to me and he’s all like ‘Where’s my yayo?’ and I went all KARATE ON THE MOTHERFUCKER and then Chi-Chi was like, ‘That’s cool, brah.’

“Don’t mess with the Lesh!”

Bobby: Moving And Grooving

bobby dancing

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Dancing with myself, wearing a brown leather jacket.”

Sure.

“Is something different?”

You’re moving.

“Ah, that’s it.”

You like it?

“I’d probably like it a lot more if you had some shots of us looking cool.”

There are none of those.

“Well, make some.”

You misunderstand me: there is neither film nor video of you–of any of you–looking cool, therefore no “cool Dead” GIFs can be made. Occasionally, you got a still picture right, but motion pictures immediately reveal you all as goobers.

“Really?”

Yeah. Gawky, lumpen boners with expensive instruments.

“What about my Rock Moves?”

bobby shootingIs that what we’re calling this?

“Yes.”

No.

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